


Witchsicle

by omgbubblesomg



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Pining, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23327515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: A classic huddling for warmth fic, except this time it's Geralt who's freezing and Jaskier who saves him (:
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 645





	Witchsicle

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a little fluff ficlet for a friend on tumblr, and then so many people liked it i got a wee bit inspired. As always, thank you to the fandom for being so awesome 😍 (I know I promised I would write the 5x1 pollen fic next I'm trying I promise)

“This,” Jaskier says, “is why you shouldn’t have eaten all that blasted pie.” He tries to adjust his grip around Geralt’s waist but it’s like adjusting for a rhino. The other side of Geralt’s body may as well be in Redania for all the chance Jaskier has of reaching it from this position. He has to grip the back of Geralt’s trousers instead. “You witchers,” he mutters. “Do they build you like brick shithouses on purpose?” Not that Geralt’s—ahem— _physique_ is usually ever on the list of things Jaskier complains about.

Geralt doesn’t reply. Which makes sense, because he’s barely lucid as it is. Which is probably to be expected after spending an unknown amount of time buried in a snowdrift. Jaskier staggers through the inn doors, hauling Geralt through as he goes because he’s getting part-time employment as a packhorse apparently.

He makes it to their room and dumps the sack of potatoes formerly known as Geralt of Rivia on the closest bed, tugging the covers over him. There’s no fire in the hearth, but there’s dry wood stacked, ready to be lit.

“A little Igni?” he asks Geralt hopefully, but Geralt is curled in on himself, white as a sheet, so Jaskier has to fumble his way around the flint by himself. Geralt’s stopped shivering but Jaskier is pretty sure that’s a bad thing, so once the fire’s going he grabs all the blankets from the second bed and dumps them on Geralt as well, then undresses quickly and squirms in behind him. The metal from Geralt’s armour is ice-cold wherever it touches him. He gropes blindly for the fastenings.

“Nnnn,” Geralt manages when Jaskier’s divested him of his outer armour and has started on his undershirt.

“I know,” Jaskier says melodramatically. “Such terribly inefficient self-heating we humans have. But I’m afraid it’s all we've got.” Geralt’s fingers twitch feebly around his wrists but are barely a hindrance. Jaskier tugs the shirt off and tosses it to the floor with the rest of Geralt’s clothes. Then he reaches for Geralt’s belt buckle.

“Jas,” Geralt rasps. His fingers twitch more insistently against Jaskier’s hands.

“Oh, it’ll be alright,” Jaskier says brightly. “You’re a little frozen but it’s nothing a bit of body warmth won’t fix.” He ducks below the covers to yank Geralt’s trousers to his ankles. Geralt’s cock lies limply between his thighs. Jaskier resists the urge to wink at it. Though he notes that the rumours about witchers having spines and barbs and whatnot appear to be false.

“Jas,” Geralt says again, more urgently.

“I’m not judging,” Jaskier calls from under the sheets, wrestling with Geralt’s boots. “Shrinkage is nothing to be ashamed of, dear witcher.” He doesn’t mention that Geralt’s cock is substantial even with the cold. He also doesn’t mention that it’s probably even bigger when hard. It doesn’t seem like the time to indulge _that_ little fantasy. “Lucky Roach led me to you in time,” he teases, “or there might not have been any of you left.” And what a travesty that would have been.

He shoves the boots and trousers out from the bottom of the covers and wiggles his way back up Geralt’s body. Putting an arm over his waist is like cuddling a tree trunk. A very very cold and naked tree trunk. But he does it anyway, scooting in until he’s pressed against Geralt’s back from nose to toes. Geralt’s skin is so cold Jaskier’s sure he’ll stick to it. Which isn’t such a terrible thought. If only people were interested in ballads about spooning glaciers, he could turn this into a nice little ditty.

“Fuck,” Geralt mumbles.

“Fuck,” Jaskier agrees easily. Geralt’s feet are like solid blocks of ice. Jaskier traps them between his own feet and tries to rub warmth back into them. Geralt groans. “Oh, hush,” Jaskier reprimands. “If it hurts it means it’s working.” He rubs the flat of his hand over Geralt’s chest, and then down to his belly, and then back up. For completely life-savey reasons and with no ulterior motive whatsoever. 

He hums the starting notes of a tune as Geralt begins to shudder. Geralt’s teeth clack once, painfully, before his jaw clenches shut. The rest of his body twitches fitfully. Jaskier switches key and starts humming a soft little melody from one of his favourite songs. Geralt would likely toss him out the window if he started whispering soothing platitudes, but humming has slinked its way into acceptable pastimes while on the road, so he’s pretty sure he can get away with it here, too.

Geralt makes a harsh sound, muffled somewhat behind his gritted teeth. Jaskier’s has had his own fair share of frozen fingertips, and he’s in no rush for a repeat performance of the fiery pain that had accompanied their thaw. He’s no longer worried that Geralt’s in immediate threat of dying, but he keeps rubbing Geralt’s chest anyway, bringing them as tight together as possible.

They stay that way for some time. The fire does its meagre best at warming the room, and Geralt’s shudders ebb a little, until it feels more like he’s squirming than anything else. Jaskier keeps humming, trying not to think about Geralt falling asleep like this in case thinking about it jinxes it into not happening. His hand moves steadily over the thoroughly-mapped area of Geralt’s chest. If Geralt falls asleep maybe he’ll be able to map a bit more of that muscled topography…

He finds that he was wrong about Geralt being warmer when Geralt’s arm jerks suddenly backwards. For a moment Jaskier thinks he’s about to be shoved away but then Geralt is jamming his hand between their bodies, twisting the icicles that are apparently his fingers around in search of Jaskier’s body heat.

“Melitele,” Jaskier gasps, forcing himself not to flinch away. “Don’t put those things any lower. I have important equipment down there that might freeze right off.” The important equipment in question twitches eagerly, like a puppy that’s just heard its name. Unfortunately Jaskier’s important equipment is pressed right to Geralt’s ass. Geralt freezes. Well. He freezes _more._ “Ignore that,” Jaskier says, rather graciously.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, apparently warming up enough to attempt multiple syllables at once. He awkwardly tries to turn, or maybe he’s trying to creep away. Jaskier tightens his arms and refuses to let him.

“Oh, stop it, you big useless witcher. Is your dignity really worth freezing to death over?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier tries not to take offence.

“Most people are usually quite pleased to have me naked in their beds,” he says haughtily.

“Jaskier—”

“I mean, except when I’m in their bed with their spouse—”

“Jaskier—”

“Although there has been a memorable occasion or two where instead of kicking me out they decided to see what all the fuss was—”

“ _Jaskier!”_

“Oh, shush, like you’ve never heard anyone talk about a little _ménage à trois.”_

 _“Not while I’m in bed with them,”_ Geralt hisses.

Jaskier pauses. He tries to peer over Geralt’s shoulder, which feels a little like peering over a building-sized glacier. Geralt turns his face into the bedding, but the cheek closest to Jaskier isn’t quite so deathly white anymore. One might even call it reddened. One might go so far as to call it a _blush._

Well. What an interesting turn of events.

He sinks back down to his side and ponders the situation, idly rubbing Geralt’s chest and stomach as he does.

“Geralt,” he says after a while.

“Shut up.”

He pauses, but decides to forge on. No one could ever accuse Julian Alfred Pankratz of skirting awkward topics. Especially not while naked. Especially not while naked with _Geralt._

“Are you _jealous,_ Geralt?”

“Shut up, bard.”

Hmm.

“You don’t feel like a big chunk of ice anymore,” he says conversationally. His hand keeps moving in nice, slow circles over Geralt’s front. “More like a big chunk of snowmelt. A little better than a witchsicle, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

Jaskier’s hand moves in widening circles. Down the centre of Geralt’s chest. Across the bottom rung of his ribs. Up his side. Over his chest, his clavicle. Back down. Lower, this time. Geralt’s fingers aren’t so chilly anymore, where they’re wedged in between their bodies. But Geralt doesn’t remove his hand.

“Any other body parts that need warming up?” Jaskier asks. Quiet. His fingers skate over Geralt’s belly. One fingertip dips into his belly button.

“No,” Geralt mutters. The stubborn bastard.

Jaskier hums, and his hand keeps moving. “Not your ears?” he asks. He hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. He has to tilt his head a bit but he breathes hot air over Geralt’s ear, his lips a hairsbreadth from the delicate shell. Geralt remains resolutely unmoved, though the tip of his ear pinks up. “No?” Jaskier asks. “What about something—” his hand wanders down Geralt’s chest, “—lower?” A little further. A little further…

His fingertips brush the tip of Geralt’s cock, where it’s straining up to meet him. Geralt releases a breath of air in one sharp burst, like it’s been bottled up inside him from the moment Jaskier dug him out of the snow, white and shaking. His hips move in a roll that seems entirely instinctive. Like his body’s moving for _Jaskier._ Jaskier’s fingers curl against Geralt’s belly, crooking around the invisible shape of the neck of his lute; for a moment simply overwhelmed with the urge to turn this wave of emotion into music. Geralt’s body is strung for _him._ But there’ll be time for that later. His fingers uncurl and he brushes his hand back up Geralt’s side.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, strained.

“Nowhere?” Jaskier asks, teasing. “You can’t think of anywhere that needs to be warmed up?” Up to his shoulder. Over his clavicle. His palm brushing the eager nub of Geralt’s nipple. “Nowhere that needs any… special attention?”

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat and he extricates his hand from between them to grab clumsily for Jaskier’s wrist, directing it back down his chest. Jaskier resists playfully and finds that Geralt is too weak to force him down anyway, which is hot in a very different way.

“Witcher,” he breathes, and then he relents and slips his hand around Geralt’s cock. Geralt shudders with his whole body. Though this time it’s not from the cold. The rest of Geralt is still a little chilly to the touch, but here he’s hot and hard and already straining in Jaskier’s grip. “Well,” Jaskier croons, “that’s one way to warm up.” He ghosts his hand down Geralt’s length, fingertips barely brushing down the underside.

Geralt says something that sounds suspiciously like an elvish curse word tangled up in Jaskier’s name. How pretty. Jaskier will have to ask him to repeat it when he’s got a bit of parchment to jot it down.

He taps his fingertips at the base of Geralt’s cock, and then skims them back up.

“You better not be looking for spines or something,” Geralt grunts.

“Oh, I’ve always known those rumours weren’t true,” Jaskier lies. He pauses. “Though I suppose it would be prudent to get a closer look just to be sure.”

“I don’t have— _oh, ah!”_

Jaskier rolls him fully onto his back and then burrows under the covers. It’s hot and humid and oxygen might be in short supply very soon, but he doesn’t think he’ll be down here for very long. Geralt looks ready to sing.

“See!” Geralt calls from above, muffled by the blankets. “No spines!” Under the canopy of the sheets his hand strays to his cock, and Jaskier pushes it aside easily, linking their fingers together. Geralt fights for only a second, but the cold must have truly exhausted him because it’s brain-liquefyingly easy to hold him in place. Jaskier’s cock surges against Geralt’s calf, which Geralt can definitely feel because he swears again, moving restlessly beneath Jaskier’s weight.

Jaskier grins against Geralt’s thigh, and mouths “ _Geralt,”_ trusting that Geralt will be able to interpret that. And then he licks his lips, breathes deep, and sucks the head of Geralt’s cock into his mouth.

Even with the layers of blankets muffling everything, Jaskier has no problem hearing the sound Geralt makes at _that._ His lips curl up and he sucks Geralt deeper, catching Geralt’s free hand with his own when Geralt tries to clutch at him. Geralt groans long and loud and plaintive, and Jaskier makes it his personal mission to hear that sound again. He tongues at the spot beneath the head of Geralt’s cock, then licks up to his slit. He purses his lips to suck at just the very tip of him, and Geralt’s fingers clench hard on his own.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s saying. “Jaskier, don’t, _ah,_ don’t fucking _stop.”_

Jaskier laughs and pulls off, dropping down to plant sucking kisses all down the base of Geralt’s cock, the head slapping wetly on Geralt’s belly. Geralt’s so strung out he’s practically speaking in tongues, garbling half a dozen languages together while his cock twitches warningly; close, so close. Jaskier eases one of his hands free and Geralt immediately grabs for him, tangling trembling fingers in the hair at his temples and pressing him weakly to his crotch. Jaskier doesn’t go where he’s directed, just to hear Geralt swear some more. Vehemently. He sucks two fingers into his mouth instead, wetting them thoroughly before pulling free and sliding them below Geralt’s cock. He only has half a second to probe delicately before Geralt is howling, his whole body doing its best to surge right into Jaskier’s hands.

Oh, delightful. That’s _delightful._

Jaskier rides the wave of his body easily, and when Geralt’s settled he slips one slick finger in. Geralt jerks and says Jaskier’s name three times in quick succession, then a fourth time, slow and drawn out and _wanting._

Jaskier gives him another finger.

It’s only then, once he’s inside the clenching heat of Geralt’s body, that he relents and lets him come. It doesn’t take much. He breathes hot over Geralt’s cock and licks a stripe straight up the underside, right from the base to the very tip, and Geralt’s whole body lurches and he goes painful-tight around Jaskier’s fingers and Jaskier digs in against the spot, the good spot, and he twists his fingers just _so,_ and sucks the head of Geralt’s cock just barely, and licks him again, hard, and he leans back just in time to watch his cock jerk once, dry, and then jerk again, a long line of come spilling out as Geralt yells every blasphemy under the sun, and invents some new ones as well. Jaskier massages that spot on the inside, and Geralt moans and jerks again, and again, and he makes a beautiful mess of himself, all over the abdominal muscles that Jaskier had spent so long mapping.

Geralt goes loose and easy around Jaskier’s fingers, all wet and warm on the inside. Jaskier spreads his fingers experimentally, just to see Geralt’s cock twitch again, one final bead of come dripping down to join the puddle.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps. “Get—ah, fuck—get up here, dammit.”

Jaskier slips his fingers fee reluctantly and clambers up. Geralt is as pliant and relaxed on the outside as he was on the inside. Every bit of him is warm to the touch. Jaskier takes a moment to wipe at him with the corner of one of their blankets before he lies on top of him.

“Better?” he asks.

Geralt’s eyes are half-lidded. “Almost,” he says. His knees spread until he’s bracketing Jaskier’s hips, and Jaskier’s neglected cock slides against his sated one. He smiles lazily.

“Well,” Jaskier says, “I suppose I can—”

“So help me Jaskier, if you say you’ll warm me from the inside you can get lost right now.”

Jaskier hides his laugh against Geralt’s shoulder, but it turns into a groan when Geralt tilts his hips and Jaskier’s cock slides between the cheeks of his ass. This time it’s his turn to make a wordless sound of pleasure.

He spits into his palm and burrows his hand under the covers to slick himself a little more, though truly he’s leaking so much he barely needs it. The touch of his hand is almost enough to tip him over but he wants, gods above, he _wants_ to be inside Geralt when he comes.

“Go on, then,” Geralt says, easy, and Jaskier lines up and pushes in. One slow, slick slide right to the hilt, so he’s as far in as he can get.

Geralt arches gently, his heap tipped back to expose the long line of his throat, like he’s inviting a bite. And Jaskier’s never been one to turn down an invitation.

Geralt’s skin blushes so pretty with Jaskier’s teeth imprinted right next to the scars from all the other teeth that have been in his skin before. And though his mark will fade, he gets to leave something even better. He likes that thought. Likes that he might have as lasting an impact as all the things that have tried to kill his witcher. He grinds his hips in deep and Geralt groans, reaching up to clutch at whatever bit of him he can reach. His shoulders. His neck.

He comes just like that. Tangled up in Geralt and pressed as close as he can get. He probably makes some very un-bard-like noises but he’s fairly sure Geralt doesn’t mind, since he gets drawn back down into Geralt’s arms almost before he’s finished spilling.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, almost more breath than word.

“Mmh?” Jaskier blinks at him, burrowing down into the bed and his body. “Well, dear witcher? Are you all warmed up now?” He smiles lazily. “Or is there some other frozen body part you need help with?”

Geralt’s eyes glint yellow in the firelight. “Yeah,” he says. “My lips.”

Well, they _do_ look a little blue. “I can definitely help with that,” Jaskier says, already leaning in.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you enjoy this fic? You might also enjoy [To warm a winter's night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207008) by valdomarx, featuring Geralt refusing to have feelings (but not for long).
> 
> You can share this fic [here](https://omgbubblesomg.tumblr.com/post/613627511088267264/jaskiergeralt-cuddles-maybe-to-stave-off) :)


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